carlos loves to listen to really loud music, especially when he’s working, and one day cecil freaks out cause he thinks carlos is somehow controlling the weather
“CARLOS NO THAT’S ILLEGAL YOU’VE KILLED US ALL!” “cecil no im playing this from spotify, look, see?” “whats…. spot tif fie? is this some sort of science thing you made?“ "you… ok you know what never mind i’ll show you later”
cecil ends up liking being able to just play music, but he’s really bad at using the app, so he has one song per playlist. just one song, and he keeps switching between 200 playlists
carlos eventually helps him out and he gets everything organized into a normal ish playlist
one day carlos decides to play cecil’s playlist – it’s just different frequencies of fish screaming underwater
His birthday is anytime between January 20th and February 18th.
So around this time of the year, imagine Carlos surprising Cecil at the NVCR Station with a homemade birthday cake (with “Happy Birthday Cecil :)” sloppily but lovingly written on the top in frosting) and the interns singing a municipally approved birthday song and Cecil just being really happy and flattered that they remembered.
steve would like walk up to janice and her friends while they’re all hanging at their house and he would give them a snack but then he would dab, trying to be cool, and janice would smile and appreciate the sentiment because she knows her step-dad is trying
Carlos still has nightmares about the desert otherworld.
He still wakes up, shaking and terrified, with the images of mangled, giant bodies and bloody, dark walls stained on the back of his eyelids.
It scares him; but it never scares him as much as the afterthoughts.
The desert otherworld. Loneliness. Empty space. Hollow science. Sad nights. Cecil. Cecil.
He wakes up breathless, sitting upright with urgency, one desperate, shaking cry for his dear, sweet Cecil.
“What?” Cecil always answers, one-half groggy, one-half ready to attack whatever had frightened Carlos. He lwould be sitting up with Carlos immediately, a kitchen knife clutched in his hand – Carlos had told him to put that away before? – aiming it around the room blindly without his glasses.
A bedside lamp would be turned on. Glasses would be retrieved. And once Carlos wipes the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand, he tucked himself in Cecil’s arms and closes his eyes.
He always knows he’s home. He knows he’s safe. And Cecil would tell him that, over and over until Carlos believed it.
“I’m here,” Cecil always whispers into his hair. Warm words in a hot room, baking in a desert midnight. But Carlos didn’t care. He relaxed at the sound of Cecil’s voice, the smooth sweep of Cecil’s hands through his hair, the scratch of his facial hair against Cecil’s neck, and the lulling, soft emotion of existential comfort that washed over him at that perfectly imperfect moment.
“I’m here,” Cecil says again. Soft, kind, and so very much like Cecil. And Carlos always sighs, relieved. “I’m here.”